


The Lives We Live

by crzy_wrtr10



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis Whump, Caretaking, Challenge fic, Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Gen, Gen Fic, Horseback Riding, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, Minor Injuries, Not So Minor Injuries, Platonic Cuddling, Stabbing, Swordfighting, Swordplay, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 14:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1820902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crzy_wrtr10/pseuds/crzy_wrtr10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>d’Artagnan did his best to ignore the cold feeling of unease coiling in his belly. The three of them were trained Musketeers – the best the regiment had to offer – and if anybody could do whatever highly secretive task Treville had assigned them with few problems it was that trio. Still, there was something that felt off about the whole thing.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Athos, Porthos, and Aramis run into trouble on their return from an assignment while d'Artagnan does his best to not pace a hole in the Garrison courtyard with only middling success.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lives We Live

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meskeet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meskeet/gifts).



> Hi. Yes, it's me. No, it's not an AU. It's 1630's genfic!
> 
> This is a challenge fic from The Beta Branch in which we wrote a scene (no more than 500 words) and that scene was given to someone else to create a fic from or around. I was super-lucky and got a scene from VLeroux that I was able to turn into this. A big, big thank you goes out to Bess, Cari, and all the wonderful people at The Beta Branch. Ya'll rock. A special huge thank you goes to V for the starter scene and loads of encouragement. 
> 
> The title is from Matchbox Twenty's "Sleeping at the Wheel."
> 
> Enjoy.

“We shouldn’t be gone long,” Athos said, checking the various bags and straps on his saddle one last time. “A few days ride there and back.”

“We’ll be back before you know it,” Aramis added, sliding his _main gauche_ back into the sheath at the small of his back before swinging himself up onto his horse. 

d’Artagnan did his best to ignore the cold feeling of unease coiling in his belly. The three of them were trained Musketeers – the best the regiment had to offer – and if anybody could do whatever highly secretive task Treville had assigned them with few problems it was that trio. Still, there was something that felt off about the whole thing. 

“Stay outta trouble, yeah?” Porthos said as he fell in line behind Athos and Aramis on their way toward the Garrison gate. 

“Trouble? What trouble?” d’Artagnan gestured around him. All he received in response were raised hands and chuckles as the three departed. He watched them go, arm resting on the hilt of his sword. 

No, something didn’t feel right about this. It was going to be a damn long four days.

 

“Well,” he told her at last, sliding into a defensive position and raising the rapier's tip slightly. “Try to attack me. Just use one of-“

She moved faster than anticipated, lunging forward in the middle of his sentence and letting her momentum slip under his guard. He turned her blade aside more hastily than he would have liked, but she didn’t stop there - no, she crashed into him, sending them both to the ground.

“Constance,” he tried to growl but couldn’t. She didn’t move, her elbows kept her weight up as she looked at him with a glimmer of mischief. “That wasn't-“

She shifted her body slightly so she was further away from him. “I'm sorry, monsieur, I can't hear you from all the way down there in the dirt.”

“Constance,” he groaned, shifting his knee to knock against her. She lost her balance then, foot slipping in the dust and landed on him once more, knocking the breath out of him entirely.

“Where I just put you,” she added, and her eyes glimmered smugly.

d'Artagnan let his eyes fix on the sky, tried to remind himself that they were, well not exactly in public but could be discovered at any time, and pushed her rapier away gently. This wasn’t exactly the sparring session he'd planned for. In fact, he wouldn't have agreed to this sparring session at all if he hadn't needed to diffuse some of the growing tension from his friends' continued absence.

They were supposed to be back two days ago, and no one had heard a damn thing about where they might be. 

She finally regained her feet, though she didn’t move to help him up. He dusted himself off once he was upright, and looked at her. There was a glint in her eye that told him she knew exactly what she was doing, and he didn’t know whether to be frustrated he’d become so easy to read or grateful she was distracting him. 

He settled on grateful for the time being as Constance charged him again, sword at the ready. 

 

“Breathe, Aramis,” Athos croaked, hand hovering over the hilt of the _main gauche_ sticking out of the juncture of Aramis’s neck and shoulder. “Breathe, and stay very, very still.”

Aramis’s fingers twitched against the muddy ground, brown eyes wide and wild in his pale face. He raised a hand, aiming for the livid bruising and obvious swelling at Athos’s neck from where he’d been strangled with a length of rope. Porthos, kneeling on Aramis’s other side, gently pinned it back to the ground. Out of the three of them he looked the best, and it wasn’t saying much – his right was swollen shut, a quickly-forming bruise wrapped around half his face.

“It’s not bleeding too badly,” Porthos murmured, gripping Aramis’s trembling fingers tightly. 

Athos rubbed a hand over his face. He had no doubt that if the blade were removed the amount of blood would rapidly become truly frightening. Stitching might not do it, and if that was the case then they’d need a fire and it would have to be cauterized. 

“Not at the moment, no,” he agreed. He swallowed heavily, wincing at the burn. 

“Cauterize?”

Aramis’s eyelids fluttered at the word. While the blood loss might not be fast and furious, it was no doubt piling up. He was already paler than Athos was comfortable with, and he knew a decision needed to be made. 

“Yes.” Athos swallowed thickly again and ignored the burn in his throat. “We’ll – “

“Take care of this and get back to Paris,” Porthos finished firmly. There was no way he was going to let the three of them – Aramis in particular – languish in such a state in the middle of the wooded French countryside.

They looked at the man on the ground between the two of them; Aramis’s eyes slipped shut.

Working quickly but efficiently, Athos gathered enough wood for a fire while Porthos started stripping Aramis of his many layers. It was slow goings around the blade sticking out of his chest, and while he did his best to be gentle he knew from every wince and grimace Aramis was not only still conscious, but still in some amount of pain. 

Athos got the fire lit, piling more wood on it in the beginning than he would have in different circumstances to ensure it grew hot enough. He then shucked out of his own leather coat and put it down as a barrier between Aramis’s cool skin and the hard ground. 

Porthos moved him as carefully as he could; Aramis struggled only briefly to help himself before his energy deserted him again and he lay limply. 

“Aramis?” Athos’s voice wasn’t much more than a croak. 

Years of working together had meant more than solidifying a friendship that sometimes went far beyond the bounds of what was considered traditional, especially between men. It had also allowed them to become almost intimately familiar with different vocal tones. As Athos was their de facto commander in the field, Aramis had learned years ago – and with some difficulty at times – to not ignore certain inflections. 

This one, in particular, was usually followed by an order to do or not do something, and then, perhaps, just how damn much something was going to hurt. 

Aramis opened his eyes and stared up at Athos. 

“This is going to hurt a bit,” he whispered. It was a little easier on his throat to not speak so loudly. 

“But we’ve got you, yeah?” Porthos added. “We’re gonna get you back to Paris.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. Porthos might not have added the _we promise_ out loud, but Aramis heard it all the same. He hung onto those intangible words as Athos held up the hot knife with one hand, and reached for the _main gauche_ with his other, Porthos’s hands heavy on his shoulders to keep him down.

 

The walking wounded had never been a more accurate description, and Athos’s shoulders twitched in annoyance. They were down to one horse between the three of them, the other two, having excellent self-preservation instincts, had taken off in the melee that had seen the three of them injured in various ways. 

Athos was hoping the long walk through the woods with very deep breaths would go a long way toward getting the stench of burning human flesh out of his nose. He kept one hand wrapped around the reins and stole glances over his shoulder at the pair on the horse. Porthos had one arm wrapped carefully over Aramis’s good shoulder, holding him tightly in place. Athos caught snatches of murmured conversation, and the occasional huff of laughter from Aramis when he was lucid enough to take in his surroundings. 

The wound itself didn’t seem to be festering or showing signs of infection, but last time they’d stopped for a break Athos had noticed a warmth to Aramis’s forehead that was concerning. The only way to get his message across to Porthos was to take the other man’s hand and rest it on Aramis’s forehead, as it felt like he’d been swallowing glass shards dipped in wine-turned-vinegar. 

He tried very, very hard not to think about how much slower and possibly more painful it would have been to hang. A rope wrapped tight around his throat had him thinking of other things, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when he spied a spot of blue flowers in a field. 

No, if he never saw a length of rope long enough to make a noose again he’d die a happy, happy man.

 

Without knowing what else to do, d’Artagnan had taken to pacing just beyond the table at the Garrison courtyard. He’d tried damn hard while the three of them had been gone to keep his mind off it. Extra training. Slashing at a straw dummy. Working on his hand to hand with someone other than Porthos. 

Hell, he’d even let Constance convince him to teach her more and more sword fighting. They’d progressed to pistols, too, and while her aim wasn’t anywhere near his – and miles from Aramis’s – she was getting steadily better. 

Still, it wasn’t a substitute for his friends and the fact they weren’t back yet. It was most likely the reason he gave up looking for distractions and sat himself at the table, eyes fixed on the gate. 

 

“Hold him high and low, and grip with your knees, yeah?” Porthos said, squinting up at Athos through the sheets of rain from his good eye, the other still resolutely swollen shut. “Your arms aren’t as big as mine.”

Athos’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead in lieu of the scathing reply waiting on the tip of his tongue. Regardless, he wrapped one arm over Aramis’s good shoulder, the other around his waist, and held him securely. He moved with the motion of the horse, not so much guiding with his knees as he would have had it only been himself and Aramis but anticipating the movement. 

Aramis said nothing, his too-warm cheek resting heavily against the side of Athos’s neck. 

Porthos wisely decided not to comment and they continued on their last leg to Paris. 

 

Of all the ways for Athos, Porthos, and Aramis to make an entrance into the Garrison again, d’Artagnan hadn’t expected _that_ in his wildest dreams. Athos and Aramis looked like they were hanging onto consciousness – and the horse – through sheer willpower, while Porthos looked as though he’d run into something large, heavy, and unmoving multiple times with his face. 

It was a scramble to get them; Treville barked orders as he came down the stairs, and it took at least two Musketeers to pry Aramis from Athos’s grip. Athos did his best to speak, and was informed by the captain to, “Shut up and stay still, damn you, you sound like hell.”

Athos finally conceded control to someone else, and stood with his hands limply at his side.

Aramis was bundled off toward his room at the barracks with Porthos in tow, Athos glowered tiredly at anyone who dared so much as suggest he have a seat for someone to look at his throat, and d’Artagnan once again found himself at a loss for what to do. 

He sat at the table, mildly surprised when Athos sat heavily next to him and all but dropped his head onto d’Artagnan’s bony shoulder with a cracked sigh. 

Finally, for the first time since the three of them had left, d’Artagnan felt the knot under his breastbone uncurl and a modicum of peace steal over him. 

It didn’t last too long, as Athos had a report to make to the captain and a man down. Though how, exactly, he was going to report to Treville with his throat in its current condition was a bit of a mystery. 

“Athos?”

Both he and d’Artagnan turned to look at Etienne. 

“Porthos asked for you. Said Aramis had enough of his wits about him to be ornery.”

Athos sighed audibly and heaved himself to his feet again, d’Artagnan his willing shadow. Together they followed Etienne across the courtyard to the barracks, and then into the room Aramis used frequently when he didn’t feel like wandering through Paris to his rented lodgings. It was also where he stayed when he didn’t have anywhere else to go, and Athos did his best to forget the _other_ occasion Aramis nearly made this room his permanent residence.

Aramis did indeed have enough of his faculties about him to present a bit of a problem to Porthos, who was trying to keep him in bed without resorting to literally sitting on him. He’d been stripped down to his small clothes in deference to his fever, though he apparently couldn’t see why he had to _stay here_.

“Because you won’t _rest_ otherwise, you ninny,” Porthos said.

“I won’t move from the bed.” Aramis, eyes still partially glazed, looked beseechingly at Athos and d’Artagnan. He tried to sit up again only to have Porthos push him gently back down; Aramis winced, and tried that much harder. 

Right then Athos knew what the problem was. He also knew of a way – even if it was a little unconventional – to keep Aramis stationary. Quickly shucking out of his weapons and coat, Athos nudged Porthos to side and, before Aramis could form a coherent protest, toed off his boots and slid onto the narrow bed with him. With his back against the wall serving as the headboard, he pulled Aramis between his legs and up against his chest. It took some pressure off his shoulders and chest, and Athos could feel Aramis relax.

d’Artagnan looked more than a little dumbfounded; Athos waved one hand in Porthos’s general direction and buried the other in Aramis’s unruly curls.

“Right,” Porthos said, like everything was right in the world again. “You handle this and I’ll handle Treville?”

Athos nodded, and swung a leg over one of Aramis’s for good measure, just to ensure he wasn’t going anywhere. The way Aramis’s face was tucked against Athos’s neck and his breathing deep and even made Athos suspect he’d finally fallen asleep.

For lack of anywhere else to sit, d’Artagnan gently lowered himself onto the foot of the bed. He drank in the sight of Athos and Aramis intertwined around each other, and _finally_ felt the last of the tension melt from his shoulders when Porthos returned and they made space for him. 

d’Artagnan took what felt like his first unencumbered breath in weeks as things were once again how they should be.


End file.
